Martial Arts Tournament Champion

Son Goku and Master Roshi moved simultaneously.

Master Roshi's techniques were archaic and heavy. There were no superfluous movements, no flashy combos; every punch and kick was the most fundamental of strikes—straight punches, side kicks, leg sweeps, and palm thrusts.

Yet, it was these basic moves that became exquisite in his hands. His speed was not fast; the audience could clearly see every movement the old man made, yet each one perfectly blocked Son Goku's attack routes while pinning him into his defensive blind spots.

Son Goku unleashed his full power under ten times gravity, his fists carrying a fierce wind pressure. Both his speed and strength far exceeded the level expected of someone his age.

His straight punch roared out like a cannonball, but Master Roshi tilted his body slightly, the edge of the fist grazing the tip of his nose. His sweeping kick brushed the ground, but the old man tapped his toes lightly to leap over the wind of the strike. However, after several rounds of fierce attacks failed to gain him the slightest advantage, he felt as if he were hitting a mass of willow catkins—his strikes felt soft, lacking the visceral, bone-jarring impact he was accustomed to.

So strong. It's not speed, nor is it strength—it's prediction. He knows what move I'm going to make half a second in advance, from what angle it's coming, and how much force I'm using.

Is this the God of Martial Arts? Is this what a human who has pushed martial arts to the absolute limit looks like?

Son Goku marveled from the bottom of his heart, while an uncontrollable excitement began to rise within him. The blood of a Saiyan roared in his veins—not with anger, but with longing. A longing for a stronger opponent, a longing to break through his own limits, and a longing to touch that higher dimension.

If he continued to brawl with him at his current level of strength, he wouldn't even be able to touch the hem of his clothes by tomorrow.

He had to change his strategy. He had to disrupt his predictions. He had to do something that fell outside the scope of his foresight.

"Hah!!!"

Son Goku let out a furious roar. He removed the limiters on his gravity suit, unleashing his full strength, his internal Ki surging like a wild horse breaking free from its reins.

White Ki flames rose from every inch of his skin, scorching the air into wavy distortions. The bluestone tiles beneath his feet could not withstand the sudden, surging pressure; cracks spiderwebbed outward from his feet, and gravel was swept up by the shockwave, pelting the protective railing in the front row with a crisp, clattering sound.

Under Master Roshi's sunglasses, those aged eyes surrounded by wrinkles finally flickered.

This brat—he actually still had strength in reserve?!

No. It's not just reserve strength. I've already calculated his training volume to the limit—from four in the morning until late at night, ten times gravity, the full Turtle School menu. By all logic, it should be impossible for him to be hiding anything. But—his power is still rising. Rising right before my eyes.

"Master Jackie Chun—take this!!!"

Son Goku's voice was slightly hoarse with excitement. He kicked off the ground—the ring shuddered violently, leaving a deep crater where he had stood—and his figure shot toward Master Roshi like a cannonball! His right fist was clenched tight, all his power, all his will, and all the sweat and longing of the past eight months condensed into this single strike.

In this moment, he suddenly understood the feelings of that Son Goku from the original story. It wasn't about winning. It was about verification. Verifying how far he had come and how many steps remained between him and the true pinnacle.

Master Roshi—was the most suitable candidate to test this distance.

"Good!!!"

Master Roshi took a deep breath, and his gaze changed completely. The comical, girl-peeping, lazy old man vanished, replaced by eyes as deep as an abyss and a heavy aura that overwhelmed the entire ring.

He did not choose to deflect the force, nor did he choose to dodge. He chose—to take it head-on.

His knees bent slightly, his arms crossed, and he crouched a few inches lower. This was the most basic defensive stance of the Turtle School—but at the same time, he condensed all his Ki into his arms, the density of the energy causing the fabric at his cuffs to burst open.

It wasn't that he couldn't dodge; he simply didn't want to.

Since this child wanted to verify his own strength—then as his master, I should receive it head-on to show him.

"Bang—!!!"

The moment the fist collided with his arms, the sound was not like flesh meeting flesh—it was more like two meteorites colliding in mid-air, or someone striking a thousand-pound anvil with a giant hammer.

A visible shockwave exploded from the center of the collision, spreading horizontally like a transparent bomb detonating on the ring.

The shockwave swept across the front row of the audience; faces were distorted by the blast, snacks flew out of people's hands, and some clung desperately to their hats amidst the screaming. Three colorful flags on the ring were torn off at the roots, the broken flagpoles spinning through the air and flying out of the arena to embed themselves in the distant grass.

Dust and smoke rose, obscuring the entire ring.

The entire audience subconsciously held their breath. The arena, filled with thousands, fell so silent that only the sound of the wind remained.

The dust slowly dissipated.

Jackie Chun was half-kneeling at the edge of the ring. His arms remained in a crossed defensive posture, but they were trembling violently—not from fear, but as an instinctive reaction of muscles having endured force beyond their limits. His sunglasses had long since shattered, the fragments scattered at his feet, revealing two wide, bloodshot eyes that held shock, gratification, and a trace of irrepressible admiration.

His feet—were already touching the white line at the edge of the ring. The edge of his soles perfectly overlapped with the white line; whether he was inside or outside the line, even the referee probably couldn't determine at a glance.

"Such, such powerful strength... Eight months ago, you couldn't even push me with one hand. Now..."

He stood up slowly, the trembling in his arms not yet fully ceased. Then, he did something that caught the entire arena off guard.

He smiled. A hearty, unreserved smile, the kind one feels for a student who has made them proud.

Son Goku stood before him, his small body panting slightly. Sweat from his forehead slid down his cheeks, dripping onto the shattered bluestone.

On his face, there was an equally brilliant smile—the kind of heartfelt, irrepressible joy that comes after giving everything one has.

Jackie Chun reached out his hand. It wasn't a stance for further combat—but a gentle gesture, palm facing outward.

"Kid—that strike of yours just now surpassed the me of the past. That boundary was one I drew for myself. But for you, it is nothing. However, precisely because of that—you must remember every word I say next."

He took a deep breath, his voice ringing out like a bell:

"Victory and defeat are not the most important things. Before the path of martial arts, a momentary win or loss is as light as a feather. A true powerhouse—always keeps their eyes on the next battle."

He paused, took off his shattered sunglasses, and implicitly admitted that he was Master Roshi.

"You are the disciple entrusted to me by that brat Gohan, and you are the one who has progressed the fastest among all my students. I probably won't see anyone faster than you in the future. So now, as your master, I have only one thing to say to you—"

He looked up, and those old eyes, no longer shielded by sunglasses, reflected the brilliant midday sun of Papaya Island:

"Well done. Go—go to even further places. Go and become stronger. Strong enough that the name 'Turtle School' will one day spread across the entire universe."

As he finished, a curve appeared at the corner of the old man's mouth. He looked down at his sole, which was just touching the white line, and waved at the referee: "Don't just stand there, make the call."

The referee snapped out of his daze, took a sharp breath, blew his whistle with all his might, and roared into the microphone until his voice cracked—

"Contestant Jackie Chun—out of bounds!! Contestant Son Goku wins!!!"

"The champion of the 21st World Martial Arts Tournament is—Son, Goku!!!"